


killers a dime a dozen

by ElisAttack



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Continental Hotel (John Wick), Eddie is an assassin, John Wick AU, M/M, Richie is still a comedian, The Dissolution of a Marriage of Convenience, as all romantic comedies should be, this is a romantic comedy but with murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Eddie leaves his wife one morning in May, divorce papers signed and notarized.  He carries his trusty garment bag on his shoulder, suitcase full of guns in one hand, a plate of farewell cookies baked by Myra in the other.  He's about ninety-nine percent sure the 'icing sugar' dusted on top is actually cyanide.Or the one where Eddie is a contract killer who leaves his contract killer wife to find love in the big city.  Instead, he meets Richie, a comedian with a bounty on his head.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eddie kills people in this, and he isn't sorry about it, so like, take that into consideration before you start reading.
> 
> In It: Chapter 2 the craziest thing about Eddie getting stabbed in the face, is that he not only managed to stab his attacker back, but also insulted him to kingdom come. I got stabbed a little once and fainted. Therefore, this entire fic is inspired by Eddie being a badass, and the fact that I watched John Wick while on a Bad Clown Movie bender.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with the John Wick universe, basically:
> 
> 1\. Assassins and the criminal underworld exist within their own strict governing rules, and law enforcement tends to look the other way.
> 
> 2\. The Continental are a chain of hotels located all over the world that act as neutral ground for the criminal underworld. Gold Coins act as currency within the hotel.
> 
> 3\. Underworld rule numero uno, no business is allowed on Continental grounds. Meaning, no assassin is allowed to kill or fight within the hotel. The penalty for breaking this rule is excommunicado, aka, maiming/death, and getting cut off from all the services (weapons, doctors, safe shelter) the Continental provides.

The plate hangs on their dining room wall in a mockery of domesticity. Untouched by dust and food alike, Myra ordered it weeks before their wedding, and presented it to him on the special day. At the time Eddie had frowned at the arrangement of apples and apricots printed onto the porcelain, the date of their marriage documented in swirling script underneath.

Cyanide was always her weapon of choice.

And he's always hated that plate.

Twelve years ago, Eddie married his business partner. Their family knows nothing of their extracurricular activities. Of course people wonder how the Kaspbraks could afford a massive mansion in Edison while Eddie works a dime a dozen office job and Myra has no job at all. Eddie tends to wave away their questions with a smile, telling lies of advantageous investments made in his youth.

He once prided himself on a reputation of mild-mannered man who has done nothing but fit inside the box since the day he was born. Not anymore.

When he told his mother he was leaving Myra, she screamed and sobbed, and called him a sad excuse for a man. How could he leave his helpless wife to the cruelty of the world? How could he be such a monster? But Myra’s never needed him to look after her. She makes bank working for the ever expanding New Jersey Camorra. She brings home the proverbial bacon.

Myra has killed for the Italians since she was sixteen. Eddie married into the Family. He never signed any contracts except for his marriage certificate, and that did not have any clauses tying him to Myra’s employers. He’s made sure to keep himself a free agent, and he intends to stay that way.

“We have a good life, Eddie,” Myra says, stirring her tea, spoon clinking on the side. Eddie wonders if this is the conversation that will finally make Myra pluck that plate from the wall, smashing it over his head. “Why do you want to throw us away?”

Except, Myra isn’t like that. Her violence is subtle. When Myra kills, she spikes decanters of bourbon. She hides in the shadows, as her targets pour poison down their own throats.

“I’m trying something different.”

Twelve years ago, Eddie married his business partner even though he did not love her. Recently, that's become a problem.

Myra rolls her eyes. “You know the kind of men who try ‘something different.’ They leave their wives for younger things. They have a midlife crisis. We aren’t the kind of people who have midlife crises, Eddie. Are you leaving me for a younger thing?”

“No,” Eddie sighs, long suffering, “I’ve been talking with my therapist…” Myra snorts. “...and he thinks I need a change of scenery.”

“If you want to go on holiday, you know I’m open to it. The other Families are encroaching on Naples, we could kill two birds with one stone. Campania is lovely this time of year.”

Eddie makes a face. “I don’t want to work while I’m on holiday.”

“That’s never bothered you before.” She gestures to the steaming cup of tea in front of him. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Well, it bothers me now,” Eddie grouses. He picks up his cup as Myra watches—nose flared for the scent of bitter almonds he knows will not be there—then returns it to the saucer. The cyanide Myra cooks up from the apple tree in their backyard is odourless and colourless. If she wasn’t already a contract killer, she would make a worthy chemist. Still, even she can’t hide the faint powdery sheen of undissolved cyanide on the surface.

“Because of what your therapist says?” Myra asks with a familiar look in her eye. He’s known her long enough to understand exactly what that look means.

“Fucking hell, Myra, you can’t kill my therapist,” Eddie says, offended. “His wife works with the Armenians, and you know what they’re like.” Also, Eddie would need to find another therapist, which is difficult enough given what he does for a living.

“Don’t you swear at me. You’ve put me in a difficult position.” Myra pouts, folding her hands over her lap. “I don’t like attention.”

She doesn’t need to explain what kind of attention, Eddie can read her thoughts in the stiffness of her shoulders. What better way to become the target of neighbourhood gossip than her husband abruptly leaving her? The only reason they got married was to foster an appearance of normality. Normal people get—and stay—married. Myra wasn’t wrong when she says they aren’t the type to have midlife crises. They’re practical. They have always followed the rules, always kept to themselves, and have always done business to the best of their ability.

But people change.

“I want to fall in love,” Eddie says.

Myra blinks. _“Why?”_ She asks, like even the concept of love is beyond comprehension.

He shrugs. “It would make a nice change of pace.”

“Eddie, you’re being ridiculous,” Myra says, unimpressed, “We kill people, we don’t fall in love with them.”

“Why can’t I do both?” He’s always sets high goals for himself. Always strived to be better. What’s one more goal?

***

Eddie leaves his wife one morning in May, divorce papers signed and notarized. He carries his trusty garment bag on his shoulder, suitcase full of guns in one hand, a plate of farewell cookies baked by Myra in the other. He's about ninety-nine percent sure the 'icing sugar' dusted on top is actually cyanide.

Eddie walks around the side of the house to the bins. Lifting the lid with a handkerchief, he tosses the cookies in. Eddie considers latching it, but decides against it. The raccoon population in the neighbourhood could use a little thinning.

His neighbour, Jake Coleman, waters his begonias in a bathrobe and a pair of ugly galoshes. It rained yesterday. It’s been raining the entire week.

“Hi, Edward, nice day we’re having,” Jake calls as Eddie opens the door to the Escalade, loading his bags inside.

“Sure, Jake.” The sky is as wan as Myra’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry to hear about you and Myra. Emily is devastated, she always said you two were perfect for each other.”

“Okay, Jake.”

Jake throws a look over his shoulder at the bay windows above the drowned begonia patch. Shutting off the hose, he slinks over to Eddie, dragging his muddy shoes onto his—well, Myra’s—concrete driveway. Eddie’s hand twitches, aching to pull his trusty knife from its hidden sheath. He swallows down the urge. This is no longer his house, he left it to Myra. The movers are coming in a few days to pick up the rest of his stuff, and he extracted a promise from Myra not to kill or maim them. Knowing her, it could go either way.

“Between the two of us,” Jake whispers conspiratorially, “Emily thinks you cheated. Don’t ask me why. The scenarios that woman cooks up in her head. She doesn’t want me speaking to you,” he says like a man eager and open to anything that drives his wife up the wall, “But if you want to get a drink, I’m free most Thursdays.”

“I’m leaving Edison.” He has no doubt that Myra will find some way to get rid of the Colemans now that Jake’s left mud stains on the freshly resurfaced driveway. She probably won’t kill him. Maybe.

“Oh,” Jake says, envy apparent in every fiber of his being, “For where?”

***

The New York Continental hotel, while not as beautiful as the branch in Rome, is certainly his favourite. He has spent many a night sleeping on fine, well-laundered sheets. He’s slipped gold coins to bartenders for a glass of top shelf bourbon. He purchased his first pistol from the in-house Sommelier, and had several bespoke suits of body armour tailored by the Seamstress. The hotel carries many fond memories within its walls.

Eddie does not want for gold coins. He can afford many nights at the Continental, until he can secure for himself more permanent lodgings. He has plans to stay in New York on a more permanent basis. Myra can have Edison, there’s far more work to be had in the city.

Unfortunately, that also means far more competition.

Bullets whiz past Eddie’s head, digging into drywall that rains down on him in a shower of dust. Eddie rolls out from under cover, kicks out his opponent's knees, and double taps him in the head.

He has no idea when this brownstone was last renovated. If he ends up pulling asbestos fibers out of his hair by the end of the night, he’s going to resurrect the dead assassin at his feet, and shoot him again. It’s not that he can blame others for attempting this contract. Half a million is a lot of money for a mark who doesn’t have more than a small team of bodyguards at their beck and call. Open contracts in Edison were never this juicy.

Eddie finds the mark clutching a knife and a bottle of vermouth, hiding behind a desk in his office. He’s shaking so hard, he’s spilled vermouth down the front of his suit. If the job was Myra’s, this guy would be long dead. Ah well, no use crying over spilled milk. If there’s one thing Eddie misses about his ex-wife it's her efficiency.

“Please, _signore, per favore—”_ The mark starts, lunging at Eddie with the knife. Eddie shoots him in the knee, grimacing when blood and bone splatter all over his shoes.

“Fucking gross,” Eddie hisses through his teeth. The mark clings to his shoulders, trying desperately to claw at him, but Eddie pushes him far out of the range of back spatter, then shoots him in the face.

He pulls out his phone and takes an unflattering photo of the hole in the mark’s head, sending it off to the Administrative Office. The money will show up in his account in a few hours.

Eddie limps down the hallway to the staircase, passing a shrieking maid. Pausing in the bright light of the once pristine foyer—now filled with blood and dead bodyguards—Eddie studies his reflection in the mirrored wall. The damage is worse than he thought. There’s a bleeding cut under his eye, he’s covered in plaster dust, and those stains are never coming off his shoes, or his pants for that matter.

Work was never this difficult with Myra by his side.

“Seriously?” Eddie makes a face and turns away from the mirror with a biting, “Fuck my entire life.”

***

Back at the Continental, Eddie inspects his suit for asbestos fibres, and once he finds none, sends it off for cleaning. He scrubs himself to within an inch of his life, cleans out his cuts and scrapes, then rubs vitamin k cream on all his bruises, especially the one on his chest where his vest took a few rounds. By the time he takes the elevator down to the restaurant for dinner, he’s barely limping anymore.

“Good hunting, Mr. Kaspbrak?” The waiter asks, smoothly handing over the menu.

“Great, wonderful, perfection, just dandy,” Eddie grumbles, looking over what’s available, “What are your gluten-free, cashew-free, soy-free, egg-less options?”

The waiter seems to give his dietary restrictions a long and considered thought. “The arugula frisée salad, sir.”

Eddie snaps the menu shut, handing it over. “One of those then, dressing on the side.”

The waiter leaves with his order, and returns with a fruity little drink; tall glass, pink umbrella, and enough sugar to rot his teeth to the gums.

“I didn’t order this,” Eddie says distastefully.

“It’s from the gentleman at the bar.” Eddie turns his head to see a tall, bespectacled man in a Hawaiian shirt wiggling his fingers as he grins at Eddie. He’s pretty sure the restaurant had a dress code, and whatever that man is, is not it.

Eddie sniffs, looking the man up and down. Not half bad. Might as well get started on that love thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie—as the man introduced himself after Eddie beckoned him closer—is an insufferable tart.

“Tell me about yourself, Eddie,” Richie says. He slurps a bright blue drink through a straw, pausing occasionally to nibble on the pineapple wedge affixed to the rim. He must nibble a bit too ferociously at some point, because the wedge slips off the rim and disappears under the table. Richie dives under to fetch it with an apologetic smile, thankfully leaving it on a napkin. If he had continued nibbling, Eddie would have had to lure him outside to kill him.

“I’m a contract killer,” Eddie says.

“No shit.” Richie rolls his eyes, his smile surprisingly warm. “Nearly everyone here is.” His gaze lazily tracks down Eddie’s body. “But none are as pretty as you.”

Eddie is nearing forty, he has bags under his eyes, and butterfly closures holding his cheek together. He is decidedly not  _ pretty. _

As a rule, Eddie has always been indifferent to attempts to flirt with him. Before Myra, it was because his mother used to control every aspect of his life, except his career. With Myra, they were always so busy working and keeping up appearances, he never considered other options.

Damn. Middle age has turned him maudlin.

“You know,” Eddie says, poking the untouched drink’s pink umbrella, “Crap like this will kill you.”

Richie shrugs, unconcerned. “You only live once.”

“You also only die once,” Eddie points out. “And if you eat garbage, it'll happen sooner rather than later.”

“Wow.” Richie grins, leaning over the table, chin in hand. “What does a cheerful guy like you do for fun?”

Eddie’s therapist once asked if he was happy, and Eddie had to think about it. He enjoys being compensated for killing people, but it doesn’t make him happy.

The last day of their marriage, Myra reluctantly asked if he had grown morals—or terrifyingly enough—a conscience; a coffin nail in their line of work. Eddie had grimaced. He has no qualms over what he does. He’s good at it, and even though it can get messy, he likes it. Lump sums of money in his account don’t hurt either. But Eddie wants happiness. He wants that elusive white whale, and what better way to find happiness than in love?

Eddie lets his mouth curve into a smile.

***

Eddie lies in Richie’s hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling. Drumming his fingers on his sternum, he takes stock of himself. New bruises on his hip, burning muscles, and a vague sense of discomfort.

But no love, no white whale, no nothing.

He rolls out of bed, barely jostling Richie, snores muffled by his pillow. He sleeps on his front, sprawled out, nearly taking up all the available space. Eddie’s tempted to turn him on his side, then stick a pillow between his knees. He’s a tall man, he’s going to have terrible back problems.

Richie’s clothes lie in a trail from the door to the bed. Eddie’s sit folded where he left them on the chair by the desk. To keep them from wrinkling any more than they already were during the elevator ride, Eddie had made Richie sit on his hands while he undressed. Richie had called him a tease, but he didn’t seem that torn up about it.

Eddie pads over in the dark with a practiced efficiency, and gatherers his clothes, taking them to the en-suite. In the bright bathroom, his bruises are even more stark, already turning vibrant colours.

Eddie grabs a new washcloth from under the sink and cleans himself, frowning at the bite marks Richie left on his chest. Those he scrubs with soap. He redresses himself, then smooths down his hair. There. Just like new. He exits the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

When Richie had pushed him inside the hotel room, flipping the light switch, the first thing he’d noticed was the mess. Not the sort of mess that comes from living out of a suitcase; there isn’t a single piece of luggage anywhere. Clutter takes up much of the free space. The writing desk is covered in loose papers and notebooks. Shoes are piled up by the door, a tripping hazard. The armoire is door hangs open, a shirt draped over the top.

All clues indicate that Richie has taken up residence on a long term basis. Eddie knows of only one reason why someone would live at the Continental.

Sitting down in the desk chair, Eddie spins it so he faces the bed, pulling out his phone. A quick glance through Contracts yields nothing, so he goes back a few years, and expands his search to include all ‘Richards’ and ‘Dicks.’

Bingo.

Turns out, Richard Tozier has a tidy price of ten grand on his head.

Personally, Eddie wouldn’t bother getting out of bed for such a measly amount, let alone break Continental rules. Still, it’s enough to get Richie knifed in the streets, especially with his tendency towards sleeping with contract killers.

Nothing will happen to him on hotel grounds, but living at the Continental isn’t sustainable, though the Manager must like him to allow it. Either he’ll run out of money first, or he’ll need to leave for one reason or another.

Returning his phone to his pocket, he doesn’t think twice as he goes over to the bed, running his fingers down the length of Richie’s sheet-covered back. Richie snuffles into his pillow.

What a pity. Eddie had such a nice time.

***

The restaurant is nearly empty this early, apparently people in his line of work prefer the indolence of sleeping in. Eddie is the opposite. He enjoys a fresh start. The coffee is good, the eggs benedict even better, and the waiters deserving of tips.

Eddie examines the morning paper's realty classifieds while sipping from a cup of coffee. This paper circulates specifically in the Continental for all the people it caters, it shouldn’t be that difficult to find what he’s looking for. And yet.

His former house in Edison was built within certain specifications. Eddie required hidden safes to store his weapons. Myra wanted a working lab in the basement. In New York, the market is more concerned with design over functionality. Nearly every listing frames floor to ceiling windows as a positive, instead of what it really is: a security risk. If Eddie’s going to die, it’s not going to be by sniper rifle, goddamnit.

He could always renovate, if push comes to shove, but he imagines it would be a tedious endeavor in the city.

The chair opposite his slides out, and Eddie looks up in surprise as Richie plops himself down. He grins, eyes fixed on Eddie until he starts feeling like a specimen pinned to a board. Is there something on his face? A spot of shaving cream? He rubs his chin just in case.

“What’s up?” Richie asks, playful. His foot nudges Eddie’s under the table, making his pulse skip a beat.

Eddie takes a deep breath, and shows him the paper. “I’m trying to find a place without so many damn windows.”

"That’s not usually a problem.” Richie’s eyes dart to the one listing Eddie’s circled; an old tenement walk-up. It’s saying something about his level of desperation that he’s willing to consider an apartment with a fire escape that opens into the bedroom. Still, he’d rather that than a glass cage. He can booby trap a fire escape.

“It’s a problem for me.”

Richie hums. “You seem like the type to favour semi-automatic pistols over shotguns," he says out of nowhere.

Eddie nods slowly, not understanding Richie’s thought process. "Shotguns are messy."

Richie lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head. "A guy came to the hotel a few weeks ago, got drunk, waved around a pistol, and tried to start some shit with the talent on stage. End of the night, he turns up dead in a dumpster down the street."

"The Manager," Eddie says.

"Yeah, he's a strict, old man. Bar fights on hotel grounds usually lose the instigator an ear, but the Manager does not take kindly to people fucking with his staff."

"This going somewhere?" Eddie asks impatiently. Returning to the paper, he encircles a promising listing.

_ "Yes," _ Richie says, plucking the pen from Eddie's grip, tucking it behind his ear. "Word is, dead guy had one of those sweet art deco apartments overlooking Central Park, and now that he's dead, it's up for grabs. I can only imagine his obsession with pistols factored in the design." Richie smirks. "Now, do you want his name or what?"

Eddie nods. Richie tears off a corner of the paper and scribbles on it. He leans over the table and tucks the slip into Eddie's breast pocket, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“By the way...” He pulls something from his pants pocket, setting it on the table. It’s Eddie’s ankle knife, sheath and everything. Eddie didn’t even realize it was missing. “I get it when people leave their underwear behind. I’m a great lay,” he says with a joking kind of confidence that belies a deeper insecurity. “But whatever this signifies.” He taps the knife. “It’s flown over my head.”

“You are,” Eddie states plainly. He takes the sheath, tucking it into his jacket.

Richie frowns, confused. “I am what?”

Eddie sips his coffee. “A great lay.”

The smile that breaks across Richie’s face is one for the record books. Eddie blinks in the face of it, could probably be burned by it if he isn’t careful.

“Oh.” Richie ducks his head in a way that’s almost shy.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Eddie warns, folding the paper along the crease, setting it to the side.

Richie softens and lets out a soft laugh. “Too late, you’re going to have to deal with my inflated ego from now on.”

“Joy,” Eddie says dryly.

Unprompted, Richie leans across the table, nearly knocking over Eddie’s coffee. He fists a hand around his tie and pulls him into a bold kiss. Eddie barely has time to mourn the flimsy silk before he’s kissing back, opening his mouth, reveling in the crackling electricity between them. Thankfully, Richie lets go of his tie in favour of dragging a hand over his shaven cheek.

Too soon—much too soon—Richie pulls back, breathless. He gets up from the chair, then, like he cannot help himself, he presses a final kiss to Eddie’s cheek, straightening the ruined tie.

"See you around, Eds.”


	3. Chapter 3

A week later, and Eddie has settled into the hotel. He sees Richie around, but spends most of his days out and about the city, getting used to the surroundings. He tries taking his Escalade for a drive, but after getting stuck in traffic for an hour, decides that walking is much more efficient. The streets smell like piss and rain most days, but there’s never a dull moment. He used to get so bored in Edison, but New York is chaotic enough to keep him on his toes.

He manages to track down the agent selling the Central Park apartment. After one viewing—during which he marvels over an in-floor safe, and a waterproof compartment in the shower big enough to hide a pistol—he doubles the last offer. Going by the way the agent’s eyes widen after Eddie writes down a very long number, the apartment will be his.

After that, he accepts a contract from the Bratva, then another from the Sicilians. He hasn’t been this productive in years.

During a fight, he takes a roundhouse kick to the chest, then catches the sharp edge of a knife, but the Continental’s doctor sanitizes the slice on his bicep, sewing him up better than Myra ever did. The tiniest of stitches, it probably won’t even scar. Once he’s bandaged up, the doctor hands him a mini bottle of vodka, and says there’s more down at the bar if he really needs it. Instead of taking that bad advice—likely a marketing ploy by the Manager to sell more alcohol—Eddie requests a course of antibiotics.

He limps down to the restaurant, figuring a chicken dinner with a side of broccoli could send him faster down the road to recovery than alcoholism could.

Sawing into his chicken breast, he takes a surreptitious glance around. Richie’s nowhere to be seen. Eddie’s startled by his own disappointment. Richie may be a lot, but Eddie supposes he enjoys the company.

The stage at the other end of the dining room lights up. The last time Eddie had dinner and a show at the Continental, a singer had performed. Myra had spent the entire meal with her back to the stage. She didn’t turn to look, not once, and made conversation the entire time. Eddie didn’t think he knew embarrassment until that exact moment.

Shaking off his melancholic thoughts, he spears a piece of broccoli. This time there’s no singer in a slinky dress climbing onto the stage. The broccoli goes down the wrong pipe, and Eddie spends a few tense moments bent over his plate, hacking it up.

“Nice to see some familiar faces around here, as well as some new ones.” Richie stands in the middle of the stage wearing a terrible suit, microphone in hand. “But it seems we’re missing a regular.” Richie lifts a hand above his brow, blocking the harsh stage lights as he scans the room. “Where’s old man Wilkinson? He always comes to my shows.” Richie drops the hand, a smirk on his face. “Which one of you guys finally offed the old fogey?”

One thing becomes apparent as Richie dives into his routine. He’s a terrible comedian. He laughs at his own jokes, then laughs at his audience. It’s like watching a child poke a bear with a stick from behind a cracked glass wall. The Continental’s rules have the illusion of security, but one day Richie’s going to make fun of the wrong person. No business on Continental grounds might be law, but it’s not like the rule has never been broken. It just takes a lot of anger, and maybe a dash of psychopathy. In a roomful of assassins, those qualities are in no short supply.

“Did you like it?” Richie asks after he finishes his set, sliding into the chair opposite Eddie’s. He picks a piece of broccoli off Eddie’s plate, popping it into his mouth.

“A week ago, you told me about a man who broke Continental rules,” Eddie says, pulling his plate closer to himself. “The person he was gunning for, that was you?”

Richie nods, leaning back in the chair. “Some people have no taste.”

“You sure it wasn’t because of the bounty on your head?” Eddie asks skeptically. He can’t imagine killing someone over a little comedy. Eddie would only ever kill for a whole lot of money. And for a whole lot of money, he’d kill anyone, even Richie. Hell, if Richie’s bounty were higher, Eddie would figure out a way to get him out of the hotel, and then he’d do it. It would be so easy too. His neck broken on the curb, a nick to his femoral artery, maybe. He’d bleed out before he’d see it coming.

Luckily for Richie, his bounty isn’t worth the effort.

“You know about that, huh?” Richie shakes his head. “Nah, he thought my jokes weren’t good. You should have seen what I had to work with when I had a team writing my material. Now that shit wasn’t funny.”

Eddie raises his water glass to his mouth, but stops to ask, “You were a comedian before?”

“I’m surprised you never heard of me.” Richie tilts his chin, smiling into the distance like he’s conjuring up fond memories. “I was in quite a few sitcoms.”

Eddie shrugs. “Didn’t have a TV.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a TV?” Richie asks incredulously. “Who the hell doesn’t have a TV?”

“My wife…” Richie stiffens, eyes darting down to Eddie's empty ring finger. He corrects himself. “My ex-wife didn’t think we needed one. According to her, they were an unnecessary indulgence. Right up there with pets.”

“Sorry about that, man,” Richie says. He could be talking about anything.  _ Sorry about the dissolution of your marriage of convenience. Sorry you she never let you have a TV or a dog. Sorry you spent a third of your life living a lie you thought was a necessity. Sorry, sorry, sorry. _

Richie drops his hand on top of Eddie’s, squeezing. “How long has it been? A few months, years?”

“A week.”

Richie chokes on nothing. He snatches the water glass out of Eddie’s other hand, gulping it all down.

“A week?!” Richie exclaims, pale-faced and sweating. He drops the glass to the table. It teeters in a circle, but Eddie sets it flat. “Jesus fuck, dude. Was I your rebound? Is the former Mrs. Eddie—”

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Eddie corrects.

“Mrs. Kaspbrak, Mrs. Assassin.  _ Whatever. _ Is she coming after me because you scorned her for a younger man? Does she know about this?” Richie gestures at the killers gathered around them, eating dinner, quietly pretending to ignore Richie’s dramatics. One of them has been sawing at the same corner of steak for the last few minutes.

Eddie leans closer. “Myra is younger than you. And yes, she’s in the business.” Richie buries his face in his hands, groaning loudly. “If it’s any consolation, I highly doubt she’ll try to kill you. Our marriage was anything but traditional.”

Richie peeks through a gap in his fingers. “How long were you married?”

“Twelve years.”

That only makes Richie groan louder. “Eddie. Eds, my sweet summer child.” He drags his fingers down his face. “You know nothing about women, especially women who kill. She stuck with you for twelve years, and you ended it just like that...” He snaps his fingers. “...then slept with someone else the day after? I’m sorry to say, but we’re both dead.”

“We didn’t love each other.”

“It’s called pride, mi amigo.” Richie glances over his shoulder like Eddie’s ex-wife might pop out of nowhere to stab him. They have nothing to worry about. Myra isn’t here. She has a level head. She isn’t going to risk everything for something like revenge.

“What about you?” Eddie grumbles, folding his arms over his chest, mouth downturned. “You’re lecturing me on my ex-wife when you’ve spent five years trapped in a hotel because someone kind of wants to kill you.”

Richie’s mouth drops open with a click. “Steve doesn’t  _ kinda _ want to kill me, he  _ for real  _ wants to kill me.”

“If he wanted you dead, he would have raised the bounty after the first year.” Eddie shakes his head. “He wants you stuck like a mouse in a trap. Whatever you did to him, it isn’t business, it’s personal.”

“Newsflash, genius, mice die in traps.” Richie purses his lips. “Not that I’m going to starve to death anytime soon. Not when I have hook-ups to leech off of.”

Disappointment rolls over him like a punch to the gut. Eddie clenches his jaw so it doesn’t show on his face, stabbing at the remains of his cold chicken. “Here’s some advice,” he says, pointing his butter knife between Richie’s eyes, “Pick up the phone and call him. It’s been five years. Surely he’s cooled off by now.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” Richie laughs, a bitter, terrible thing. “Reasoning with Steve is like trying to make croissants in a hot kitchen. The butter melts, the dough is ruined, and then the chef bends you over and fucks you in the ass.”

Eddie blinks. “You know how to make croissants? And you’re in a carnal relationship with the pastry chef?” Eddie has met the Continental’s pastry chef. She’s a no nonsense woman who seems more likely to set herself on fire than defile her workspace. Eddie respects that in a fellow professional.

Richie sighs. “It’s a figure of speech. And I help Chef Melinda with prep sometimes." He shakes his head. "But that’s not what we’re talking about. I tried calling Steve, tried apologizing, begging, fucking crying. Nothing worked. He hangs up every time.”

“Why don’t you put your own hit on him?” Eddie suggests. “Level the playing field.”

“You think I have the money for that?”

Confused, Eddie asks, “You can afford the Continental, but you can’t afford an open contract?”

Richie scoffs. “I don’t have the cash to spend on vanity hits.”

“I wouldn’t call it a vanity hit if it keeps you alive,” Eddie says. He would know the difference. The Camorra love a good show of force, and what better way than killing a rival for no reason at all.

Richie leans over the table. “Listen, the only reason the Manager hasn’t kicked me out is because he likes my jokes. I do odd jobs around the hotel to earn room and board. He doesn’t pay me—not a cent—doesn’t even let me connect to the hotel WiFi, the stingy bastard. What gold coins I have saved goes towards food and drink. What money I have left pays the staff for whatever they bring me from the outside world. I used to get books from this one bartender, but she moved a year ago, and I haven’t been able to convince anyone else to go to the library. I haven’t read a book in a year. When I was a kid, that was the fucking dream. Now, goddamnit, I would happily read  _ Fifty Shades of Grey  _ if someone would just lend it to me.”

“I don’t own  _ Fifty Shades of Grey.” _

“Of course you don’t. You’re actually good at sex,” Richie says, biting his lip, looking up at Eddie from under his lashes. Eddie knows exactly what he’s trying to do, and he looks ridiculous. Still, he’s surprised to feel himself flush. “When you stuck your dick in my ass, I could feel you in my throat.”

The man sawing at the steak drops his knife. He bends down to get it, but doesn’t come back up again. A second later, Eddie spots him crawling over to the bar.

Richie continues, with not one lick of shame, “You gave me two orgasms in a row. Should be impossible, I’m nearly forty. I was coming dry the second time around, you bastard. Woke up with this unbelievable kink in my back.”

Eddie frowns. “If you didn’t sleep on your front you wouldn’t have this problem.”

Richie reaches across the table, fisting a hand around his jacket lapel. “Shut the fuck up.” He roughly yanks Eddie in, his kiss soft and sweet.

***

Richie rolls off of him with a sigh. He leaves a hand on Eddie’s bare thigh, touch soft, reverent even. It’s a small piece of contact in the grand scheme of things, but as Richie reaches for the nightstand, grabbing his glasses and sliding them on his face, Eddie still feels his touch in the base of his spine.

“You okay?” Richie asks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

“Good.” His eyes expressive behind his glasses, Richie presses along Eddie’s side, lifting himself up on one elbow so he can bend down and kiss him. And kiss him, and keep kissing him. Richie licks into him in a way that sets fire to his nerve endings. He’s dazed when Richie pulls back, chest aching like a bad case of heartburn.

Eddie slides his hand into Richie’s hair, watching with satisfaction as he closes his eyes. He tugs on the uneven strands, curling them around his fingers. Richie must cut his own hair, because the back is uneven. Eddie’s tempted to drag him to the bathroom, sit him on the edge of the tub and fix the problem.

“Eventually my money’s gonna run out,” Richie says, fingertips ghosting over Eddie’s jaw. “Or I’ll stop being funny. That's the day I’ll die, because I made a choice five years ago and it ruined someone's life.”

Eddie hums, curling his fingers around Richie’s ear. His phone pings with a message. Eddie sighs. Untangling his limbs from Richie’s, he forces himself out of bed. He pads over to his folded clothes, phone on top. Reading the message, Eddie’s brows fly up to his hairline.

Richie buries his face in the pillow, voice muffled as he asks, “Job?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket.

He cleans up in the bathroom, returning to place a glass of water on the bedside table. It only takes a minute for him to get dressed, even as Richie watches, sitting up in bed, drinking the water.

“Don’t forget your knife.”

Eddie pulls up his pants leg, showing him the sheath. “Maybe I should forget it,” Eddie says, fixing his hair in the mirrored armoire. He walks back to the bed, dropping a hand on Richie’s knee, kissing his jaw, then his mouth. In his ear, he says, “Give me an excuse to come back.”

Eddie pulls away to watch Richie’s expression, see the way he smiles.

Richie pats his cheek, fingers lingering. “As if you need an excuse.”

***

Eddie kicks the guard in the chest, and she flies through the window, landing with a crunch on something that is definitely not the hydrangea bushes three stories below. Another guard lands a hit that makes Eddie rock back, glass crunching under his feet. His next punch meets nothing but air as Eddie ducks, running into him with his shoulder, pushing him out the window after his colleague.

Eddie exchanges fire around a corner, down on one knee as his opponents' shots burst through the plaster over his head. A body falls off the balustrade, and Eddie throws his knife into someone’s throat. He empties his clip into a guard’s bulletproof suit, then hurls the useless gun at his face, grabbing a pistol off a dead body, shooting him in the head.

He keeps moving, going up another flight of stairs. He kicks open a door at the end of the hall, pressing himself against a wall as a shotgun fires once, twice, three times. He waits for a click, then bum-rushes the mark. Grabbing the shotgun, he points it at the ceiling, and pulls the trigger. The light goes out, and glass rains down on them. He wraps an arm around the mark’s waist, tangling their legs, forcing him to the ground.

He reaches for the knife at his ankle, and comes up empty, just realising he left it in a guard’s neck. Damn, he’s off his game.

The mark punches Eddie in the sternum, rolling them over, thick forearm pressing down on Eddie’s neck. He’s starting to understand why this is a million dollar contract.

“You’re dead, motherfucker, dead,” The mark grunts, putting even more pressure on Eddie’s throat. He can’t swallow, can’t breathe.

He claws at the mark’s arm, but when that doesn’t work, he slams his fist against his nose, breaking it in a spatter of gore. Still, he doesn’t let up. Eddie’s gasping for air, blood dripping from the mark’s face to his, and Eddie gropes along the floor beside him, grabbing a shard of glass. He stabs it into the mark’s throat, using all his force to dig it as deep as he can, before ripping it out in an arterial spray. Eddie brings up a knee to the mark’s chest, kicking him off, but the damage is done.

“What the fuck!” Eddie shrieks, frantically sitting up, scrubbing at his face. His vision is red; unfortunately not a silly metaphor for anger. Literally red. He has blood in his eyes. Blood.  _ In his eyes. _

He staggers to his feet and nearly trips over the mark’s body, only to catch a glimpse of his face in the closet mirror. Eddie screams.

Stumbling over to a doorway at the other end of the room, sink visible at the corner, Eddie turns on the water full blast, dunking his head under the stream.

Minutes later, after he’s washed his face and hair at least two times, he turns off the light and exits the ensuite, towel wrapped around his head.

“Fuck you,” he tells the mark’s body, snapping a picture and sending it off. “Bastard.”

He throws the towel down, about to leave, when he notices a bookshelf near the window.

Huh.

Staying away from the glass, just in case some of the guards are still alive, he runs a finger along the spines, browsing the available selection. There’s no erotica, as far as Eddie can tell, but there are at least three different editions of  _ The Godfather. _

Eddie grabs a pillow off the bed. Removing the case, he stuffs it full of as many paperbacks as he can carry, slinging it over his shoulder.

He makes sure to grab his knife on the way out.

**Author's Note:**

> Chechen mobster: what you want me to do? go to John Wick assassin hotel with help wanted sign…
> 
> Me: ...AU


End file.
